


Tribute

by thedevilchicken



Category: Hunt for Red October (1990)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-26
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken





	Tribute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Destina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/gifts).



Seventeen years after they left the Motherland, Marko Ramius died.

He was laid to rest in a cemetery in New England in the heart of the town where he’d come to live, at the foot of a headstone that called him Alexei Simonov. There was no official obituary aside from two lines in a local journal, but they said it was a good burial, that almost every last person living in that small, sleepy town came to pay their last respects to the kindest, most erudite and reliable individual to have settled in their peaceful little fishing community in a hundred years or more. He’d lent a hand when they’d founded their new school, then he’d stayed on to teach English; he’d attended every local council meeting for over a decade; he’d influenced the town so completely just by being himself in his own quiet way that they were naming a new wing of the public library after him.

Vasily found it a fitting tribute. Marko had always been just as much intellectual as warrior, perhaps because he’d chosen to serve his country when that had not necessarily signified a covert offensive, meant a war with no battles, no heroes, only casualties. Marko’s morals had always been set in stone. In the end, defection had been the only course open to him, and thus to them.

They met in Polijarny when Vasily was twenty-seven years old. At the time he’d been a Senior Lieutenant of the Russian Navy, full of hope that had not yet begun to wane through blind, unaccountable service, perhaps because he was still flushed with the excitement of knowing he’d found a career that he wanted to make his own. Against his family’s wishes, he’d joined the Navy – the Borodins had always been Air Force, for as long as it had existed, and his petty teenage rebellion had been to switch services away from the line of colonels and generals before the die was we and truly cast.

Because he was who he was, rather than because of his exemplary service, he was invited to the party. He sat quietly there at the admiral’s table, making polite conversation; he may have been a fiercely loyal officer but that didn’t mean he was completely one of them in the sweepingly conversational way. Perhaps that was what caught the attention of the great Marko Ramius, opposite whom he was seated. Marko spoke to him and he answered, politely. And when Marko eventually drew him into debate, he knew it was because he felt genuine interest, not because of a social convention.

They drank whiskey on the admiral’s terrace after the meal, while the others were ensconced inside with their halo of cigarette smoke. Vasily preferred not to smoke, and the crisp, clean, cold air at Polijarny reminded him of home. It was likely too cold to be standing there but they didn’t let it stop them, leaning against the railings in their perfectly buttoned uniform jackets. Ramius was already a captain then, albeit third rank, and he looked every inch the part as he talked about the service. There was an ironic twist to his mouth as he spoke but Vasily was intrigued by that, by the wisdom of his years and his experience. He was impressed. Finally, he had a role model.

He came under his command eight months later, at the launching of the fleet’s newest boat. Marko Ramius, who had taken out each of the new models for the past ten years, had picked him as third in command and at twenty-eight years old that was an excellent move; he dined in the officers’ mess and worked on the bridge, polished buttons in his quarters and felt so pleased, so fulfilled. The captain invited him to dine in his quarters every few nights and they talked. Having the trust and the respect of a man like Marko Ramius made him proud. Having his friendship made him feel worthy.

Four years later, he was his executive officer, second in command. They were a formidable team, the brilliant captain and his steely, silent right arm, sailing together, the backbone of the crew who were always so faithful because that was what was inspired in them, though Vasily knew just how much support the great man needed after the death of his wife. Vasily was there, never complaining, the burden never too much for him to bear. And when they left, when they took with them everyone they could count on, took all of their secrets and their perfect weapon to give to their enemy, Marko repaid every moment of that support when he saved his life.

Vasily married four years after the defection, when he moved to Montana. It was as perfect as he’s envisioned it, the heat in summer, the cold in winter, the landscape so unlike his home that he was lost for the first few years. His wife was kind and loved him almost from the moment they met, it seemed, and said she understood when he told her he could say nothing about his life before America. He imagined the children they’d have, the ranch they’d own, but it would never happen; she said she understood, but it was too much pressure for their relationship. It lasted three years. He left Montana. He moved to Maine.

President Ryan sent a letter the day after Marko died. Vasily wept when he received it, when the soldier came to their door to deliver it. They’d been so contented there, where Marko smiled as Vasily planned vacations through the many states, and Vasily thanked him almost daily for this life they led together. He missed him bitterly.

He’d lost the best friend he’d ever had, the constant companion of more than half his life. He knew he could never recover.

And in the end, it just didn’t matter that he was buried without his name. Because Vasily remembered him.


End file.
